


Insatiable

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddle-pollen, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Making Love, Marathon Sex, Metaphysical Sex, Mutual Pining, No consent issues, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Sex Pollen, Sick Character, Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Tenderness, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), extremely half-hearted attempt at pretending this isn't consensual just for show, kind of, more like cuddle pollen, so much mutual pining they can open a christmas tree shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: “Are you cold?” He croaks out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.“Oh, terribly,” Aziraphale moans, and Crowley feels his traitorous arm move of its own accord, circling the angel’s shoulders and pulling him close.Aziraphale makes a pleased little noise at the touch and Crowley almost chokes on his own spit.Very slowly, and as softly as he can manage, he says, “I need to know what’s going on, angel.”Aziraphale, curled up against his chest, nods. “It’s my punishment,” he replies, his voice small and quiet, barely a breath.🐝Aziraphale's punishment strips him of his powers and makes him particularly willing to cuddle with a demon who's been in love with him for a few thousand years.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 144
Kudos: 901
Collections: The Sticky Stigma





	Insatiable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [lazulibundtcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulibundtcake)'s Sex Pollen challenge on the GO-Events server.

“Angel?” Crowley closes the bookshop’s door behind him as he walks in, two bottles of atrociously expensive wine clinking in the bag he’s carrying along. He’s wearing tight grey jeans, a slim silver chain around his neck, and a deep frown on his face.

“Anyone home?” He looks around. Behind his dark glasses his gaze is alert and vigilant, in sharp contrast with his casual tone and easy swagger. “Wasn’t planning on breaking and entering today, but you weren’t answering and I thought…”

 _Something had happened_ , Crowley would finish, but nobody’s around to hear it. The bookshop is dead silent and empty, which is highly unusual. On a Wednesday, around this time of the evening, there should be a happy angel fluttering around the shop, ‘taking inventory’ – an expression Crowley has learned to mean _stroking my most loved books in a way that looks more than a little erotic_. Not that the demon has ever said anything about it, because—well. Maybe it’s just him and all the pent-up sexual energy he’s been repressing for a few thousand years. For all he knows, the angel really could be doing inventory, and he’s just an old pervert.

As he steps into the dark, cold space, Crowley distinctly misses the way Aziraphale greets him every time he enters the bookshop. Usually, the angel will stop whatever he’s doing for a moment as soon as he spots him, and happily gasp Crowley’s name. Like he’s overjoyed to see him – every single time. And then, hopefully, they’ll spend the night drinking together and talking and laughing until the early hours of the morning.

Except, tonight, the angel seems to be nowhere to be found.

Crowley makes his way across the bookshop. Finding it completely empty, he takes the stairs that lead to the small flat upstairs.

“Aziraphale?” He calls again.

“Cro… Crowley?” The angel’s voice replies at last. “Oh no, I must have forgotten…”

The demon has reached the top of the stairs and waits patiently in front of the angel’s door.

The door remains stubbornly closed in front of him.

“Forgot what?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. “Forgot me?”

“No, that I’m… I’m very sick, Crowley, I’m so sorry.” The angel makes his best attempt at faking a cough, but he’s always been a terrible actor. Crowley scowls at the door. “I should have cancelled. I apologise for the inconvenience, my dear.”

“What do you mean _sick_?” The demon tries his utmost best not to sound worried. “We don’t get sick. _Angels_ don’t get sick.”

“Oh yes, yes they do,” Aziraphale replies over a light rustling sound. Crowley imagines him, on the other side of the closed door, shuffling nervously on his feet. “Again, I apologise. I’ll call you soon to reschedule.”

Crowley lowers the wine bag to the ground so he can cross his arms over his chest. “Look, if you don’t want to see me, that’s fine. I’ve got plenty of hobbies, you know?” Sure, like shouting at his poor plants or staring at his phone waiting for it to ring. Perfectly valid, interesting hobbies. “But you sound _off_.”

“I told you,” Aziraphale whines, “I’m sick.”

“And I told _you_ ,” Crowley replies, “Angels don’t get sick. Listen—open this door. I promise I will leave in less than a minute if you’re just ‘sick’, whatever the Heaven that means.”

“I would be a fool to believe a demon’s promises.”

“ _Aziraphale,”_ Crowley growls in frustration, “I’ve never lied to you, have I?”

“Well… no,” the angel replies. “Not that I know of, at least.”

“So open this blessed door for a moment, will you?”

The door finally creaks open and, much to Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale does look quite sick. He’s wrapped up in a blanket, pale and shivering, the skin of his forehead glistening with sweat.

“Shit,” Crowley says. “You don’t look good.”

“Why thank you,” Aziraphale attempts to glare at him, but it’s a half-hearted thing that he gives up on very soon. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to bed.”

Ignoring that, Crowley slinks inside, circling the angel, trying to assess what’s going on.

Aziraphale retrieves the bottles of wine from his doorstep and, not without a long sigh and an accusatory glance in Crowley’s direction, closes the door.

“So angels _do_ get sick,” Crowley says, mostly to himself. “What with?”

Aziraphale worries at his bottom lip for a moment, then shakes his head. “None of your concern. Come on now, let’s drink this wine so you can go home—”

“We’re not _drinking wine_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley protests, snatching the bottles back, “You’re sick. You should be drinking—soup, I guess? It’s what I give Warlock when he has a fever. Do you—”

He reaches forward, a hand outstretched to touch the angel’s forehead, but Aziraphale’s jade green eyes go huge and he takes a quick step back.

Bit of an overreaction, in Crowley’s humble opinion.

“What?” He asks, because seriously, something is so very wrong here and he can’t for the life of him figure out what it is, “I was just—”

“I know what you’re doing, Crowley,” Aziraphale replies, raising his voice at last, “And I’ve run out of ways of telling you to stop.”

Crowley opens his mouth and slowly closes it again.

“Right. Yes,” he eyes the door, considers leaving. And he would, he really would, considering he’s clearly not welcome here. But he can’t just leave, not with the angel looking so pale and clammy. So he settles for the next best thing: he grabs a bottle of wine and sinks on the far end of the sofa, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the angel lets out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping.

Crowley takes his time ripping the paper off the bottle and unenthusiastically popping the cork. “I’ll just stay here, then. Go back to bed.”

He takes a long swig of wine and sprawls in his corner, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him.

It takes a while, and a good deal of irritated sighing, but a few minutes later the angel shuffles closer, coming to sit on the sofa next to Crowley.

“I’m truly feeling rather awful,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can hear the apology in there, if he listens hard enough. They don’t say _sorry_ and _thank you_ , the two of them, but they find ways to understand each other nonetheless.

“I can tell,” Crowley says, to mean _I might have been pushy, but I’m just concerned_.

“It’s been two days already, and I don’t know how much longer it will last, to be honest,” _you were right to be worried, but I need to tell you on my own terms what’s going on_.

“That so? You could have called. Would’ve brought you soup.” _Fine, as long as you know I will come when you ask me to._

“I could have,” Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley can’t help but notice how he’s leaning towards him, their shoulders touching now.

Well. This is new.

“How’s the wine?” The angel asks.

Crowley makes a dissatisfied noise. “Could be better,” he shrugs.

Aziraphale shifts to look at the label better. He’s now actively leaning against Crowley’s shoulder and side, and the demon is doing his utmost best to look perfectly calm about this new development. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t breathe, he studiously keeps his gaze straight ahead. He’ll allow his heart to beat just as long as it doesn’t do so too loudly – although, at the moment, it’s failing spectacularly at keeping quiet.

“I think I’ve had that one… was it in France? No, not France… Belgium? Nothing to write home about, anyway,” Aziraphale says, then closes his eyes and rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley swallows, the movement of his throat gunshot loud in the room's quiet.

“You are,” the angel huffs out, making himself comfortable on Crowley’s pointy shoulder. “So very warm.”

Considering he was just drinking, the demon mouth feels exceedingly dry. And he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Something is terribly off, and he doesn’t know what it is, but the angel would never act like this if something wasn’t very wrong.

Or would he?

“Are you cold?” He croaks out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Oh, terribly,” Aziraphale moans, and Crowley feels his traitorous arm move of its own accord, circling the angel’s shoulders and pulling him close.

Aziraphale makes a pleased little noise at the touch and Crowley almost chokes on his own spit.

Very slowly, and as softly as he can manage, he says, “I need to know what’s going on, angel.”

Aziraphale, curled up against his chest, nods. “It’s my punishment,” he replies, his voice small and quiet, barely a breath.

Crowley waits for him to elaborate in his own time.

“Too many miracles. They had warned me, and I… well, let’s just say Gabriel and I disagree on what counts as ‘frivolous’,” Aziraphale explains, and Crowley can’t help the quirking of his lips into a smile – but it’s okay. The angel isn’t paying any attention to his face right now.

“So what, they came here and gave you the flu?”

“Well, sort of,” Aziraphale says, and if Crowley thinks the way the angel shivers and curls up closer to him is adorable, it’s not his fault at all. Kind of comes with the territory of having a sick angel burrowing himself against your side like a baby rabbit. “They cut me off, is what they did. All power, for… oh, a few days at least, I expect.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “And what’s that feel like?”

“Oh, just _awful_ ,” Aziraphale whines, finally letting out all his frustration at his current predicament. “I’m so cold all the time. My bones hurt, my head spins, and I can’t seem to warm up any way at all.”

The demon awkwardly pats the shoulder he has his hand on, trying to offer some comfort.

“So warm,” Aziraphale mumbles, and Crowley has to wonder whether the angel is even aware he’s doing that. “The worst thing is… it was Michael and Uriel. They came without Gabriel, and I should have known immediately something was wrong – but then, Uriel opened her fist and threw this horrible powder in my face…” Crowley rubs up and down the angel’s arm, in a way he hopes is vaguely soothing, as Aziraphale’s expression darkens and his voice shakes in recounting. “Quite rude. _Very_ rude, really. Exceptionally rude. I’m appalled by such behaviour. And from an archangel nonetheless! But the worst thing is…” He sniffs.

Aziraphale’s blanket has slipped a bit, and Crowley pulls it back up, making sure the angel stays warm. Well, as warm as possible, considering the circumstances.

“The worst thing is,” Aziraphale repeats, “Almost immediately, I could sense how _warm_ they were. Even at a distance. Brimming with power, the two of them.”

Crowley turns the idea over in his mind, tries to picture it, and decides it would have been at least a little bit funny to see Michael and Uriel’s horrified faces if Aziraphale went in for a hug. Not that he would ever want those two wankers hugging _his_ angel, or in his general vicinity at all. If it was up to Crowley, he’d toss the archangels in the darkest cell Hell has to offer and incinerate the key.

“What about me, then?” The demon asks, more than a little confused, “Why am I warm? No angelic power here.”

“No, of course not,” Aziraphale replies. “And yet… I don’t know, Crowley. It’s not an exact science. Maybe some remnants…”

“Or maybe my powers aren’t too different from those of an angel to begin with,” Crowley mutters.

If Aziraphale was stronger, the demon is sure, he would fight back against this statement. He would say that it’s ridiculous, that angels and demons are very different, that they’re on opposite sides, so on and so forth. As it is, Aziraphale just deflates and shifts closer – and even though Crowley enjoys being right, he hates seeing the angel so sad and tired.

Then he realises that Aziraphale has almost climbed in his lap and has to smother an increasing need to run away as fast as his wobbly legs will carry him.

“Maybe.” Aziraphale says again, and Crowley feels that word against the skin of his neck. Sirens go off in his head, and he can’t move a muscle.

The angel is nuzzling his neck.

Maybe, if Crowley keeps talking, this won’t seem half as a huge deal as it is.

“Tell you what,” he says, carefully, in the most normal tone of voice he can manage at the moment, “I’ll stay here – for a while. I had no plans, anyway. Londoners have been awfully good lately. It’s been raining all week. There’s nothing on the telly I haven’t already seen half a dozen times.”

“Terribly nice of you,” Aziraphale sighs, and his breath tickles Crowley’s throat.

“Not nice,” he shoots back immediately, piqued, “I’m interfering with Heaven’s plans right now. Very demonic of me. Very respectable.”

“Oh, of course it is,” Aziraphale replies, and Crowley can feel him smiling against his neck and doesn’t even dare swallow.

Time passes. Slowly, second by agonizing second, time passes. Aziraphale starts to snore softly, raising goosebumps on Crowley’s skin with every out-breath.

Eventually, Crowley’s back starts to hurt from being in the same rigid, uncomfortable position for too long, so he lets the bottle of wine float its way to the coffee table and very gently lies down. The sofa is agreeable enough to expand under their bodies until it can accommodate the both of them with ease. Crowley rests on his side, Aziraphale asleep in his arms, the angel’s back against his chest.

It’s… really rather lovely, to be frank. And Crowley would be enjoying this fully if he wasn’t, at the same time, utterly furious at the archangels for once again mistreating Aziraphale like this. He’s accepted a long time ago that there’s nothing he can do about it, except hope Aziraphale sees reason at some point and be there for him when that happens, but it doesn’t ever get any less frustrating.

He’s busy fantasising about running over an archangel with his Bentley when Aziraphale shifts, mumbles something in his sleep, and presses his full buttocks right against Crowley’s front. The demon swallows, and something stars to _stir_ in his jeans.

Crowley closes his eyes tight and tries to think about spoons. That’s all that’s happening here: they’re spooning. Innocently. Nothing untoward going on, it’s just… spoons. Crowley is the big spoon, and Aziraphale is the little, soft, warm, inviting—

Ah, fuck cutlery.

A telltale tightness in his nether regions makes him realise Aziraphale might already be _feeling_ the effects of his current train of thought. As discreetly as he possibly can, Crowley focuses intensely for a moment and gets rid of his misbehaving cock. Then he waits to see if Aziraphale noticed anything at all.

Three seconds pass. Then ten. Then sixty. A full minute, trickling by slowly, and the angel has no reaction at all.

Crowley exhales.

But then the angel speaks.

“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale starts to say – slowly, carefully. “Every angel feels differently when cut off from their power. Some barely feel it at all. Some become ill for a while. And some… well, for some it is so terribly painful they might even stop existing altogether because of it.”

Crowley digests that crumb of information, wondering which path it might lead them down. “But not you,” he says, because that’s the most important thing. Frankly, Gabriel could cease to exist any day and Crowley wouldn’t spare a blink for the bastard.

“It has never quite got so bad for me in the past, no,” Aziraphale answers. He glances back at the demon from over his shoulder, lips slightly pursed, and Crowley wonders what that look is supposed to mean. “What I’m trying to say is that, i-if we assume, if there was… if an angel was suffering greatly, to the point of being in danger of dying, well… Heaven wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ really object to them finding a way to stay alive, could it now?” He quirks an eyebrow. “ _Any_ way to stay alive, is what I mean.”

“Yeah?” Crowley says, because Aziraphale can’t mean what he thinks he means. Certainly, he doesn’t… no, that’d be impossible.

Crowley tells himself very firmly to push all wishful thinking aside. Surely what the angel is saying is that, for once, they’re allowed to hold each other. Nothing but perfectly innocent hugging. If an archangel were to walk in, Aziraphale could explain that he’s only in the demon’s arm to stave off annihilation.

That’s all.

And – this might make him a terribly rubbish demon but, to be completely honest, this is more than enough for Crowley. He’s always wondered what it would feel like, to hold and to be held. He’s seen many, many hugs in his long time on earth, but very rarely has he been touched at all. Sometimes, he got away with holding a child. He’s never quite… never had anything quite like this before.

It’s nice. It’s very nice. It’s also slightly awkward, because he’s not sure what he should be doing with his hands, his arms, his pointy knees, his breath tickling the angel on the nape of his neck. But it’s so very nice.

And if he’d be willing to go much further, well – nobody has to know. Aziraphale least of all.

But the angel keeps looking at him, almost as if he were waiting for something. Is he?

“What I’m saying,” Aziraphale continues, “is that you don’t really have to – to get rid of anything on my account. Unless you want to, that is.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, a harsh exhale of breath against the angel’s curls, “I need to – you have to tell me _exactly_ what you mean.” Because if he gets this wrong? He might as well find the nearest church and fix himself a holy water drink, no olives.

“What I mean is…” Aziraphale replies, very slowly, clearly weighing every word. He licks his lips, “I’m afraid I might be feeling worse by the second, my dear. Do you think you could help with that at all?”

 _Could he help with that at all?_ He’s been itching to _help_ Aziraphale for almost as long as he’s known him. Sure he can help.

Crowley swallows, is surprised at the way his hands shake when he gently turns Aziraphale around to face him.

“S’alright,” he says, holding him close, his lips brushing against the angel’s forehead. “I’ve got you now.”

Is he pathetic if his heart is beating loudly in his ears just from this simple contact? Because it feels not simple at all. He might never, ever get the chance to do this ever again, so he better make it good.

While he’s wondering where to even start, Aziraphale tilts his head up to lock eyes with him. Even through the glasses, somehow the angel always seems to know where Crowley looking.

And then, he shifts just a little bit more, and presses his lips to Crowley’s.

Aziraphale’s mouth is startlingly soft. Crowley had no idea it’d be that soft. And warm, _terribly_ warm. A little wet, in a way that is alarmingly pleasant.

And then the angel captures one of Crowley’s lips between his own and gently sucks on it.

The demon hears a noise – belatedly realises the noise comes from his own throat. Something in between a strangled whimper and a startled moan as he parts his lips and lets Aziraphale’s tongue in, hot and wet and not at all shy like he’d expected.

Aziraphale is kissing him. Aziraphale is kissing him, and Crowley’s eyes feels dangerously hot, and he knows – they must be yellow from corner to corner now. In a parallel dimension, his wings quiver, and on the sofa in Aziraphale’s flat, his hands shake and he holds tight to his angel.

Aziraphale places a thigh firmly between his, and Crowley remembers – _you don’t have to get rid of anything on my account_.

His body shifts quickly, much faster than he’d like, much more eager than he’d want to appear, and somehow Crowley finds himself pinned between a hungry angel and the back of a sofa, his erection undeniable and heavy against Aziraphale’s thigh.

He really wants to make this good for the angel, but finds it’s very hard to decide what to do when Aziraphale is melting away every last thought he has with that determined tongue of his. Crowley is reminded, all at once, of all the times he’s watched Aziraphale moan around a spoon, or surreptitiously lick his fingertips clean after a good meal. That tongue sure got lots of practice, no wonder it finds its way around Crowley’s mouth so easily. He’d never pictured it being so aggressive, and never had pictured himself loving every second of it and wanting more.

Aziraphale’s blanket finally falls to the floor, and the angel shivers. Crowley is about to lean over him to get it back, but the angel takes his hands and guides them to the buttons of the cardigan he’s wearing instead.

“Oh, you wily demon,” Aziraphale enunciates loud and clear – way too loud, considering Crowley is barely an inch from his face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Crowley frowns, his fingers on the buttons. Aziraphale opens his eyes wide and glances up towards the ceiling. The demon stares at him for a few long seconds, wondering what’s going on.

Crowley likes to think of himself as a pretty smart guy, it’s just really hard to think when all the blood has left his brain to gather between his legs.

But he gets there, after a few frantic looks from Aziraphale, who’s not glancing at the ceiling at all – he’s glancing up towards Heaven. Right, of course. Just in case someone’s listening in, they should—

“Uuh… do not resist, angel,” Crowley says, with little conviction, but just as loud as Aziraphale, “You are too weak, and if you don’t accept my help you will perish.”

Crowley knows exactly what that eyebrow raise from Aziraphale means – _‘oh, and you’re the demon who inspired Shakespeare?’_

But then Aziraphale’s fingers move over Crowley’s, and he’s opening his own button, the first and then the second, the third… and Crowley forgets all about that look.

“You are right. Of course, I am completely powerless at the moment,” Aziraphale declares, and he’s a terrible actor too, but Crowley couldn’t possibly care any less at the moment, “But why would you help me, you foul fiend?”

“Er,” Crowley says, partly because he has no response to that and partly because Aziraphale is shrugging off his cardigan, and underneath he’s only wearing a shirt, this time with smaller buttons. Which makes Crowley vaguely feel like he’s undressing a Russian doll, and every new layer is smaller and therefore harder to get rid of. “I am not helping you, you… you fool. I am corrupting an angel of the Lord!”

Aziraphale touches the back of his hand to his forehead, and Crowley would roll his eyes at these theatrics if the angel wasn’t, at the same time, vigorously rubbing his thigh against the demon’s undeterred cock, the friction deliciously distracting. “Alas, poor me, I am left with no choice,” Aziraphale says, just as the combined effort of all four of their hands manages to open his shirt, revealing a white undershirt that is, to Crowley, as frustrating as it is tantalising.

“How long until this wears off?” He growls, pulling the undershirt up while Aziraphale quickly shrugs his shirt off, almost toppling off the couch in the process.

“Until what wears off?” Aziraphale asks, busying himself with the fly of Crowley’s jeans.

“This, Aziraphale, the—” Crowley sucks in a breath as the angel sneaks a hand down his trousers. “Being cut off from your powers thingy.”

Which is to say – how long do they have a plausible excuse to be doing this?

“Oh my, Crowley, you’re not wearing any underclothes,” Aziraphale gasps, the scandalised sound of his voice in harsh contrast with the way his hand is happily rummaging into Crowley’s jeans, pressing into the soft skin of his upper thigh, exploring the patch of rough red hair that trails farther down, barely grazing his cock before sliding down to cup his balls.

“How long, Aziraphale?” Crowley repeats through gritted teeth, trying to get this out of the way before he loses all ability for coherent conversation.

“Oh, a few days more… let’s say three at most, to be safe,” Aziraphale replies casually as he hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Crowley’s jeans and tries in vain to pull down, “How you get in and out of this blasted things is beyond me.”

“Wait, hold on—” Crowley stops the angel’s hands by holding them in his own. “Three days? That’s—let me—let’s get into a bed. Do this properly.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle as he looks at him, and Crowley knows – he’s being seen right through. The angel knows him a little too well not to know he’s, at heart, a hopeless romantic. “Oh, but you’re—you’re ravaging me, we can’t possibly just move to the bed.”

“I can ravage you in a bed too,” Crowley points out. “Any respectable demon would always choose the most comfortable option, right? Add a little sloth to the lust.”

Aziraphale nods, and Crowley snaps his fingers to move them into Aziraphale’s bedroom.

As soon as they sink together into the angel’s mattress, Aziraphale rolls them over and firmly straddles Crowley.

So much for ‘being ravaged’.

Not that Crowley has any objection to this development. Sure, he’d pictured this being a very slow, heartfelt affair, but now that they’re here – _finally_ , finally together and on the same page and allowed to touch without having to fear the consequences, well… it couldn’t go any other way, could it? It’s been such a long time coming. And while their unexperienced hands might be clumsy and unsure and way too eager, he’s thoroughly enjoying the flurry of touches, kisses, gentle bites, until they’re skin to skin and his back is arching off the mattress to press against as much of Aziraphale as he possibly can.

The truth is – there have been so many times in the past when he’s looked at Aziraphale and begged silently, in the safe confines of his head, to be pushed against the nearest surface, pressed down, stripped completely and touched all over. A handshake, a shared laughter, a look that lingered a second too long – and he’d wish to be exactly where he is now: pinned down under Aziraphale’s soft, generous body, the angel’s luscious thighs on either side of him, his hands on a quest to find every last sensitive spot of skin.

He’s hard and leaking and it occurs to him he should consider being embarrassed, but Aziraphale presses down against him and begins sucking up a mark on the side of his neck and every last rational thought flees from Crowley’s mind. There’s only Aziraphale, heavy and soft and real above him, his wonderful lips and teeth sending shivers down his spine, the wet tip of his cock sticking to Crowley’s stomach with every movement.

Crowley realises with staggering clarity that he’s not going to last long at all.

So he sneaks a hand between their bodies and wraps it around both their cocks, immediately rewarded by a wet moan against the shell of his ear. He’s always done this by himself, but – can’t be too different, right? The mechanics should be the same.

He’s not expecting Aziraphale to quite – lean into it as much as he does. Knees planted into the bed, the angel grinds against Crowley’s fingers and cock, not a trace of shame or doubt, and he’s unbearably gorgeous like this, freely enjoying himself, and the demon barely manages to hold back until he feels the first hot stripes of come painting his chest before letting go, gritting his teeth as his whole body tenses and wave after wave of pleasure rocks through him.

At his peak, he loses sight of the room around him, is flung out of his corporation – and yet safely tethered to it, just for a split second, and in that moment he sees him: Aziraphale, his true form. No human words could describe him. Crowley could waste time talking about fire and wings and millions of eyes, but at the heart of it, angels can only be defined by the emotions they inspire rather than by shapes or colours or other human concepts.

Aziraphale is vast, powerful, terrifying, and unbearably beautiful. And – hurt.

Crowley falls back onto the bed, his arms wrapping around the angel, holding him impossibly closer.

He’s not sure what he saw exactly, but in the parallel plane where their true essences lay, it was much more evident why Aziraphale would be weak and cold here on earth.

He cradles the back of the angel’s head in the palm of his hand, fingers sinking into his curls.

Aziraphale clings to him, panting hard, and Crowley gently flips them over, lies him on his back.

The angel’s eyes go wide and he grips Crowley’s shoulders. “Please, don’t go now, I need—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the demon reassures him, brushing a blonde curl away from his forehead. How could he go, now that he’s seen? Now that he’s so much more aware of how vulnerable his angel is right now? “I’m not leaving until you want me to.”

Aziraphale smiles as he kisses him, and this time it’s hard and deep and a little desperate. When they break apart, the angel’s gaze is steadier, honest.

“You’ve always been here when I needed you,” he mutters, a confession spilled quietly against Crowley’s lips, “And I—I need so much more yet.”

Crowley kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his soft jaw, the beating pulse under his neck. He waves away the mess on their bodies, leaves a kiss over Aziraphale’s heart. He makes his way down, down, down. And, all the while, the same thought circles in his head.

_I’m going to give you anything you want._

* * *

Crowley loses all sense of time in the next three days.

Not that he usually has a good grasp of it. A year, a century – it all goes by so fast.

But, in those three days, time seems to expand, because every moment is full to the brim with new details he learns about his lover. The way Aziraphale shuts his eyes tight whenever Crowley swallows his cock to the hilt. How when he’s just about to come, he’ll find some part of the demon’s body to grasp, and he’ll grip it tight as his orgasm rips through him. How brightly he smiles, forehead beaded with sweat, the first time he manages to make Crowley come so hard the demon’s knees give out and he falls face first into the bed and over Aziraphale.

He learns the angel is scorching hot inside, and that he makes a very particular sound when Crowley hits his sweet spot just right. He learns that Aziraphale might not have a snake tongue, but it can be a truly wicked thing nonetheless, because the angel adores taking him apart piece by piece, stripping him of all dignity and pretence until he’s a writhing mess, gasping for breath and still begging for more. He learns Aziraphale’s cock feels thick and perfect inside him, and that he doesn’t mind _at all_ spending a hour or two trapped between the angel and his bed, taking and taking until his arse is sore, his face sticks with drool and sweat, and the imprint of Aziraphale’s hands has to have left indents in his hips.

And, every time either of them is close to peaking – Crowley reaches a bit farther, slides closer to the shivering energy mass that is Aziraphale, pushes harder. The first touch of their essences is electric, but not explosive – they seem to be unexpectedly compatible.

Same stock, after all.

The next time around, he tries wrapping himself around Aziraphale. It’s a titanic effort, because the angel is so vast, unrestrained and untameable. But, little by little, Crowley succeeds, and when he’s done – he presses every part of his soul _into_ Aziraphale’s freezing spirit. The angel shivers, stills completely, and then sighs in relief, accepting the warm intrusion, his pleasure rippling through the alternate dimension, curving the space around them, swallowing eagerly all the energy Crowley pours into him, insatiable.

Back on earth, in Aziraphale’s bed, Crowley is exhausted, and grinning, and he’s never felt more satisfied in his entire existence.

* * *

On the third day, they both notice Aziraphale has made a full recovery. They share a look, and decide not to mention it at all. They make love slowly, wringing every last drop of pleasure and intimacy out of what little time they have left.

* * *

On the dawn of the fourth day, Crowley feels Aziraphale’s eyes bearing into him as he gets dressed. But he has to go. He won’t try to stay, and Aziraphale won’t try to stop him. They both know – time’s up. It’s not safe to linger here, much as they’d want to.

Crowley ties his hair up in his usual half-bun, and gives Aziraphale a tight-lipped smile as he walks towards the front door. The angel follows after him, wringing his hands all the way there.

Crowley stands in front of the door, an eyebrow raised. He glances up. Aziraphale frowns for a moment, then realisation dawns on his face, and he says, “Y-you foul demon, you took advantage of the situation, but Heaven shall win the War that is to come, and then – you will be fairly judged and punished for your… for all your immoral acts.”

Crowley can think of an immoral act or two worth spending an eternity in Hell’s darkest pit for, but he can’t say that aloud. Instead, he clears his throat and states, “Without my generous help, you wouldn’t be here at all, Principality.” Just to remark how inevitable this was. Just to be safe – just to keep Aziraphale safe. “I have some—ah, terrible wiles to get to now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait—!” Aziraphale says, and it’s his normal voice now, not the loud, pompous version of it he puts on for Heaven. Crowley hesitates in the doorway. “Take this, please,” the angel says, sliding the ring off his little finger.

Crowley observes the little object. He can’t keep it. He’d love to, but he can’t. They’ve been so careful, and this just – wouldn’t be safe at all.

Aziraphale is looking at him, dewy eyed, and – oh no, he’s about to say something earnest and dangerous, isn’t he? “Crowley, I have to say it, I’m in—”

“Don’t,” the demon interrupts, softly. “Don’t, not now.” Aziraphale’s shoulders drop. “But keep it for me. For… one day, when we’ll have our picnic, yes? Keep it for me until then.”

The angel gives him a little smile. Not a _no_ , just a _not yet_. Aziraphale should be familiar with the concept – his own was a tartan thermos full of the holiest water.

“And I can’t take this from you.” Crowley holds the ring in his palm, extending his open hand towards Aziraphale. “You would rub the skin off your finger if you didn’t have this to fiddle with.”

The angel, very gently, closes Crowley’s hand around the ring. “I insist. Crowley, please – at least for a while. You’ll give it back to me the next time we see each other. I need – I want to know it happened. That it was real. Every time I will reach for it and I won’t find it on my finger, I will be reminded.”

Crowley can’t help the way the corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. “Well then,” he says, taking the little golden thing and sliding it on his ring finger. It fits perfectly, and his heart hurts with longing and hope. “Until next time.”

Aziraphale clings to the door as Crowley leaves, watching him go down the stairs.

“Until next time, my dear.”


End file.
